


a little complication

by Askance



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bad Sex, Christmas, M/M, SPN J2 Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-05 12:39:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5375495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Askance/pseuds/Askance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has a lot of regrets about what happens on Christmas Eve, but nothing he regrets so much as those goddamn fuzzy pink handcuffs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a little complication

**Author's Note:**

> For [tesserae_](http://www.tesserae_.livejournal.com) as a Secret Santa gift!

“Jesus,” Dean groans, “it's even worse in daylight.”

 

Neither of them wants to go inside. Inside they'll be able to see _everything,_ and what they can see from just past the doorway is bad enough. It's just barely six AM; the sun is still struggling to get itself up into the sky; Sam's got snow melting in his boots and mutters under his breath that he could really do with a cup of something hot—preferably spiked with alcohol, no matter what the doctor said.

 

They stand shoulder-to-shoulder, squeeze into the doorframe.

 

“We gotta clean up,” Sam says.

 

“Do we?”

 

“Um, yeah.”

 

Dean sounds pained. “Why can't we let housekeeping do it?”

 

“Right, because Consuelo-the-underpaid-mother-of-three really deserves to see this on her Sunday morning.”

 

Dean sags.

 

“Come on,” Sam says, but he doesn't seem willing to be the first inside.

 

For a few more minutes they linger there, awkwardly, until Sam finally shoves his way past and into the carnage.

 

Dean shuts the door. However horrific the room is inside, at least it's warm. Maybe if he closes his eyes and clicks his heels together or some shit it'll all magically disappear.

 

All he knows for sure is that Sam is never, ever, _ever_ going to let him live this one down.

* * *

 

 

 

A well-intentioned Christmas gift, _Dean_ had thought. It'd been months since they'd had a whole entire night to themselves and even longer since they'd actually had good sex. Sorry, Sam, but a sloppy blowjob behind the Gas-n-Sip off 380 doesn't count, even if it _was_ in the open, and kind of hot. And he knows Sam isn't about the romantic shit, so he didn't book the honeymoon suite—he didn't even get a place that _had_ suites. No roses or candles or steak dinners, because it's not fucking Valentine's Day—it’s the gift of hot, sweet, Christmas-Eve sex, all night, no interruptions. He'd been planning it for months. _Months._ And he’d been determined to make it the best sex both he and Sam had had in as long as they could remember.

 

No one realises how hard it is to buy sex toys on the down-low. Dean has serious respect for couples who manage to pull that off. It's especially hard when the person you're fucking is your brother and your brother knows all your guilty hiding-something looks and always suspects the worst. But he managed it. He tried not to be choosy. Better to have a lot of stuff to choose from than nothing exciting at all.

 

(It is also, for the record, almost impossible to hide said sex toys when you share a car and duffel bags and, well, _everything_ with said brother that you are fucking. Dean thinks he deserves a medal at this point.)

 

But he did it. And after he sent Sam out into the snow for booze Dean went all out, all over that tiny second-floor motel room: condoms with flavours arrayed like a fucking candy bowl, toys he didn't even have names for hidden strategically beneath pillows and in drawers, whipped cream on the nightstand (why not?), and the piece-de-resistance—the fluffy pink handcuffs he'd bought in one of those seedy edge-of-town sex malls, already securely fastened to the head-board, because if Sam didn't get a laugh out of that (and maybe a hard-on, too), then Dean just didn't know him anymore.

 

Sam came back with booze, right on cue, right as everything was set up, red-faced and bundled-up tight in the doorway, and everything was going exactly according to plan.

 

Until it wasn't.

* * *

 

 

 

“I don't even know where to start.”

 

Sam reaches down and picks up a fistful of unopened flavoured condoms and drops them like nuclear waste into the trashcan.

 

“Pick something up,” Sam says. “I guess.”

 

Dean wonders if this is how cops feel on a crime scene.

 

The sheets—what's left of them—are stiff and sticky with dried smears of whipped cream. And half on the floor. There may or may not be a whipped-cream handprint on the wall, too—most of it has slid down the siding. Several phallic things that Dean doesn't actually remember buying are wedged between the headboard and the wall. (When did that happen?) Something red is oozing out from underneath the bed—he bends down enough to lift the duster and see the empty plastic jar of maraschino cherries rolling cheerily across the floor, seemingly of its own volition. Who the hell had ever decided that ice cream toppings were a good thing in the bedroom?

 

Porn, lying to him, again, as usual.

 

Sam picks up something small and circular from the biohazard of the bed. “What is this thing?” It suddenly begins to buzz, and tiny red and blue lights begin to go off inside it, and he drops it.

 

“Vibrating light-up cock ring,” Dean says, and nobody has ever sounded so sad about a vibrating light-up cock ring before.

 

“Did we even use that?”

 

“No.”

 

Sam flicks it across the sheets and makes a face.

 

“Look,” Dean says, pulling helplessly at one of the ruined duvets, “let me do this, okay? It was my stupid idea—”

 

“It was pretty stupid,” Sam says, thoughtfully.

 

“Hey, okay, I'm trying to apologise here—”

 

“You broke my wrist,” Sam says, “not my knees. I can help.” He moves as if to pull the sheets off the bed and then stops. The magnitude of the mess they've made just keeps rolling over them in waves.

 

Dean feels like sinking into the floor.

* * *

 

 

 

Everything had been going pretty well—or, to be honest, it hadn't, but it had been great in comparison to the sound of Sam's wrist snapping like a bunch of twigs inside those goddamn motherfucking pink fuzzy handcuffs.

 

Sam was more than game when he came back with the liquor, but it became abundantly clear to Dean about fifteen minutes in that he hadn't planned any of this very well. He'd been too excited at the thought of a sex marathon on Christmas Eve to even put any of it together correctly. Was it okay to use condoms with food that came from an aerosol can? And why didn't anyone tell him how _sticky_ whipped cream was? And why hadn't he remembered that Sam _told_ him, a long time ago, in fact, how he really wasn't into putting anything up his ass that wasn't attached to Dean, and so the rubber dicks were essentially useless, and sixteen minutes in it became very apparent that Sam just wanted to have sex—regular rough-and-tumble sex—and all of Dean's secretive sex-mall spending had been, well, for nothing.

 

But there were still the handcuffs. And those, thank God, got exactly the laugh out of Sam that he'd wanted. And Sam was not averse to having them closed around his wrists. They were getting somewhere. Granted, this was not going to last all night. But it was something.

 

And then it was a disaster, because Dean had not realised how short the chain was and how long Sam's body was and how badly he was cuffed in until he made one wrong move somewhere around Sam's pelvis and his wrist just—

* * *

 

 

 

One handed, Sam has made a sticky, disgusting ball of the sheets and put them, as if in time-out, into the corner of the room. Dean's thrown away the empty plastic maraschino cherry jar and the untouched condoms and the bottles of novelty lube and the fakey-fakey riding crop and the vibrating light-up cock ring and double-bagged the trash bag to spare whoever picks it up from seeing his extreme and unrelenting shame. Sam's working the last of the dick-shaped plugs out from behind the headboard with his un-broken wrist and Dean is trying not to make a joke about him jacking it off because he feels absolutely fucking horrible about this whole situation.

 

He knows Sam's not mad at him. He's too nice and understanding and fucking gracious to be mad at him. Even with a broken wrist in an emergency-room cast and zero hours of sleep. Which makes it all the harder to apologise properly, because Dean knows he's already accepted whatever apology there is to make, and so how the hell is he supposed to express how bad he feels?

 

Somehow he doesn't think an apologetic handjob is what Sam wants right now.

 

He starts grinding a wet towel into the maraschino cherry juice that's seeping into the carpet, hoping to keep it from getting sticky. Not sure how they're going to cover that one up. He might as well just own up to the management and pay for the damages to the room, because there's no way in hell this place will ever be _un-_ sticky ever again.

 

It's _almost_ starting to look like a place that's fit for human habitation again. Almost. Frankly all Dean wants to do is get about five states away, or at least somewhere where he doesn't have to think about all this. It's not so much the mess that bothers him—though he'd be happy to never encounter whipped cream again in his life. It's that a few hours ago on Christmas Eve he was explaining to the nurse why they didn't have insurance cards and Sam was getting his wrist set inside a cast in another room and it was his fault—nobody else's.

 

Sam's not mad, because it was an honest mistake, because he's Sam. But Dean can't help but feel awful. Hurting Sam, even accidentally, always makes him feel like he's lower than dirt.

 

“Sam?” The towel is turning pink under his boot.

 

“Yeah?”

 

Dean doesn't say anything until Sam comes back out of the bathroom, where he'd gone to double-check for any more incriminating evidence that might traumatise Consuelo-underpaid-mother-of-three.

 

“I'm sorry,” he says, as soon as Sam makes eye contact with him. Sam's been holding his broken wrist up near his chest; says it hurts less. “I really am, dude. I just wanted to have some fun.” He can feel his face getting hot.

 

“Dean—it's fine, I swear,” Sam says, with a small and placating smile that only makes Dean feel worse. “It was an accident. I'm not mad or anything.”

 

“Yeah, I know, but—” He defaults to scratching the back of his head. “Man, I just really feel like shit right now about it.”

 

“Hey. Okay? It was pretty fun. I mean, it was dumb, but it was fun.” Sam steps over a pair of boxers that's still languishing on the floor and cuffs him on the shoulder. With his good wrist, of course. “The thought that counts, and everything.”

 

Dean looks back at the handcuffs, and Sam looks with him—the things that are going to haunt him for the rest of his life—still attached to the bed; he'd had to bolt out to the car in his underwear for wire cutters, because his stupid ass thought that it'd be fun for some fucking reason to lock the keys in the motel safe after Sam was restrained, and he couldn't remember the combination once the sound of Sam's bones breaking hit his ears—one lonely pink fuzzy cuff still locked around the slat in the bedpost. Like some kind of _Criminal Minds_ Exhibit A. And this, Your Honour, is what my dumbass client used to chain his brother to a shitty hotel bed, because he is _the_ worst brother in history—

 

“Let's just leave it,” Sam says.

 

Dean looks at him. “What?”

 

“Just leave it. We're both running on fumes.” Sam suddenly looks about as exhausted as he must feel. Dean knows the painkillers the ER doctor gave him are probably only making it worse. “Let's go. Get some breakfast somewhere. Find a quiet parking lot to take a nap in.”

 

“What about Consuelo-unpaid-mother-of—”

 

Sam laughs. “This place has an hourly rate,” he says. “I think she's seen worse than half a pair of handcuffs.”

 

Dean gives the room one last look; for two idiots with only three working hands between them, it doesn't look nearly as bad as it had a few hours ago.

 

Somewhere outside down the street the Christmas morning church bells are ringing. Dean thinks about making some kind of quip about how they need to stop in, but the grin on Sam's face makes it pretty clear he'd had the exact same thought.

* * *

 

 

 

“For future reference,” Sam says, loading up his fork with hash-browns, “next time, less is more.”

 

“Next time?” Dean's full; the breakfast platter they ordered at this greasy spoon outside of town was big enough to feed an army. “There's gonna be a next time? Shit.” He spins his coffee mug, slowly, by the handle.

 

Sam smiles. “Well, yeah,” he says. “But maybe with a little less whipped cream, you know?”

 

“God,” Dean says, resisting the urge to plant his face into the scrambled eggs. “It was such a dumb idea.”

 

“At least it tasted good.”

 

“Fuck me.”

 

Somewhere in the car on the way here the whole thing changed. It was Sam, playing down the wrist, playing up the absurdity of it all, that did it. Dean still feels guilty as fuck, but he's almost to the point where he can start to laugh about it.

 

“I'll tell you what,” Sam says. “Next time you wanna do something special—a few drinks and a football game and handjobs on the couch.” He clinks his coffee mug against Dean's in what might be the saddest toast ever known to man. “That'll do just fine.”

 

Dean sits with his face in his hand, watching Sam finish his coffee; snow is coming down silently outside, and sue him. He smiles a little bit.


End file.
